


Getting Off On The Right Foot

by elviaprose



Category: Blake's 7
Genre: Foot Fetish, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-07
Updated: 2014-08-07
Packaged: 2018-02-12 06:20:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2098824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elviaprose/pseuds/elviaprose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for this B7 kink meme prompt: Blake/Avon - Feet.  I don't care who's feet, but massaging, licking, observing, bandaging, whatever. Those two. Kinkiness involving feet. Go!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Getting Off On The Right Foot

**Author's Note:**

> Aralias betaed for the kink meme (and supplied the title). I wanted to revise it EVEN more before posting to Ao3 (yes, I'm neurotic) so I asked x_los for a second opinion. Thanks so much, both of you! It was fun!

The cafeteria contained nine long tables and could theoretically seat 90, but Blake’s rebels were few. Blake had recruited no one new after discovering Arlen’s treachery. Loathe to make the large, neon-lit room feel even emptier than it needed to be, the rebels ate their daily hot meal promptly at 18:00, crowded around a single table.

For the second evening in a row, however, Blake’s usual seat at the head of the table and Avon’s at the foot were both empty. Each of the rebels made something different of their leaders’ absence, but by unspoken consensus they hadn’t pushed the chairs out of the way, even if it meant for a more cramped seating arrangement.

Tarrant, arriving last and seeing an opportunity to assert himself, strolled over and sat down in Blake’s usual chair.

Hel Vek swallowed a mouthful of reconstituted egg without chewing, determined to make his disapproval known as quickly as possible. He wasn’t one to let people walk over him, or over anyone he liked. Before Blake had recruited him, he’d organized the GP miners in a revolt. “That’s _Blake’s_ seat,” he said.

“It’s an _empty_ seat,” Tarrant said, showing his teeth. “If you miss eating with your leader, you could always find someone else to follow. Someone present.” 

Soolin did not share her observation that Tarrant himself had been known to the universe at large as one of “Blake’s 7” for years before ever meeting Blake. Blake was a very difficult man not to follow. The fact that Blake had missed two dinners with his people was unlikely to matter much in the scheme of things.

“Ignore Tarrant,” Vila told the table. “That’s just his way. He doesn’t mean anything by it, it’s nothing but talk. Just ask Avon.”

“We can’t at the moment,” Soolin drawled.

“I’m going to go find Blake,” Pavo stood up, unmoved by Vila’s assurances. “Tell him he needs to do something to keep the _new recruits_ ,” he glanced pointedly at Tarrant, “in line.” 

“Oh, sit down, Pavo.” Klyn hooked a finger through his belt loop and pulled. “You can tell him later.”

“It’s nearly the only time they have for themselves,” Deva said. 

“You mean for each other.” Dayna grinned.

Deva flashed her a twitchy smile.

“Buggering each other senseless, that’s what they’re doing,” Vila said sagely.

“Blake was in high spirits today. Whatever he’s doing, it’s doing us and him good,” Klyn said.

“Whatever he’s doing…” Vila raised his eyebrows suggestively, ready to take another crack at relaxing everybody. “With Avon? Avon’s bound to like it weird. Poor Blake…” 

“Hmm. What do you think he likes? Whips and Chains?” Dayna said, willing to play along.

“Temperature variable handcuffs. The way to play is to make them warm--pleasantly warm, but you make it clear you can go hotter...and hotter.” Jin finished on a whisper. 

“Tame.” Soolin smirked.

Vila gave her a look of comic horror, pushing his chair backwards to get away. Then he sat back with a pleased smile as his companions, distracted from their earlier quarrel, strove to outdo each other in their knowledge of disturbing sexual acts. 

In the course of the conversation, most of the rebels forgot that the perversions they were naming were nominally Avon’s, all of their energy focused on impressing each other. None of them except Soolin had tried anything truly unusual, but it didn’t stop them talking the talk. If, however, any of them had stopped to give the question serious thought, they wouldn’t for a moment have doubted Vila’s suggestion that it was Avon who had unconventional tastes, not Blake.

They would all have been mistaken. 

**

The door to Blake’s quarters had scarcely opened before Avon was slamming Blake back against the wall, grinding himself against him, cursing into his mouth. So this, Avon thought wryly, was what it was like to be on good terms with Blake. He’d been on Blake’s base for three days and fucking him for two. 

Three days earlier, The sound of gunfire had drawn Avon, along with Soolin, Vila and Dayna, to the control center of Blake’s base. There, Tarrant and Arlen were grappling, struggling for control of Arlen’s gun. Soolin had fired without hesitation. Most wouldn’t have risked injuring Tarrant, but Soolin was ruthless, and an unparalleled shot. Arlen had fallen back, mortally wounded.

“Avon,” Tarrant had managed to get out, “Blake’s a traitor…”

Avon had trouble remembering what had happened after that. He had excellent recall, but everything from that moment on was hazy. He did remember that he’d been aiming his gun at Blake when Arlen, apparently not content to die with anyone believing she’d been anything less than model citizen of the Federation, had told them all that Blake wasn’t the traitor. _She_ was.

Avon had done his best to avoid talking to Blake about what had happened, but Blake had eventually cornered him and dragged a confession out of him. No one went catatonic when faced with the betrayal of a man he hated, Blake had reasoned, and Avon had to agree--with qualifications. If he still cared what anyone at all might do to him, if he relied on anyone at all to have his back, it was Blake. And he _did_ hate Blake for making that true. Then Blake had asked if Avon loved him, which Avon had thought was an idiotic question, but which he had answered truthfully. Blake had claimed to reciprocate, and so Avon had fucked him.

Touching Blake, touching any part of him, made Avon brutal and insane. He wanted to touch Blake, needed to, but it _hurt_ in a way that didn’t allow him to hold still, or be gentle.

Blake, although not his match when it came to bruising passion (which wasn’t to say Blake hadn’t left _any_ bruises), easily surpassed him when it came to post-coital contentment. All day, Blake had seemed just delighted to have had him, delighted that Avon loved him. When they were apart, he felt angry that Blake dared to be so uncomplicatedly happy about it all, but whenever he saw Blake, he found himself smiling back at him like a fool.

“Avon,” Blake was groaning. Blake’s fingers dug into the bruises he’d left the day before on Avon’s shoulders, and Avon let out a muffled cry. Then he took a step back to study Blake, to collect himself. Something he hadn’t even attempted before. 

Blake reached forward ran a hand gently up the back of Avon’s neck and through his hair. It was the first time he’d ever done it. Avon clenched his teeth, feeling a flash of that already almost habitual need to be brutal, which faded as Blake’s fingers returned to squeeze his shoulders. Unfortunately, his eyes had no sooner closed in pleasure than he was clenching his teeth again.  

He drew a deep breath. Bedroom talk. That was what one did, wasn’t it?

“I like that. When you touch me where you hurt me before,” Avon ground out. “Let me reciprocate. Tell me, where are _you_ bruised, Blake?” His hand moved to the small of Blake’s back, then lower, suggestively.

“Avon,” Blake said, “I’m bruised everywhere.”

“I don’t hear an invitation to touch you everywhere,” Avon said flatly, trying not to feel offended. He already _knew_ he’d been too rough, thank you.

Blake kissed the corner of his mouth, appeasing, and Avon jerked involuntarily against him. “There are a few places I’d particularly like to touch _you_ ,” Blake said. “It’s been a long time since I’ve been able to indulge myself.”

Avon didn’t say anything. He wanted Blake to want to touch him, to need him desperately. He wanted to indulge Blake, to give him what he wanted, whatever it was. But he wondered if he still had it in him to do so. His reaction when Blake so much as put a hand in his hair didn’t bode well.

“Very well, what do you want?”

“You’ll need to be very clean,” Blake told him, with a grin that belonged to a younger man. “Use my shower.”

Avon’s mouth went dry. Oh, but he did want Blake. He did--love Blake. He pulled away and strode across the room without a word.

“All right?” Blake called. 

“Fine.” 

**

On my stomach?” Avon asked, as casually as he could, as though imagining Blake’s mouth where his own hands were as he washed hadn’t made them shake. He wasn’t naïve, or inexperienced. He knew what Blake probably wanted. 

“Oh, it doesn’t matter,” Blake said, doing a far better job of sounding casual than Avon had. Avon’s eyebrows went up. 

“Doesn’t it?”

“No,” Blake said. “You’ll see in a moment.”

Avon lay down on his side, propped on one elbow, torso twisted so that he could still look at Blake. Now he really had no idea what was going on.

“Draw your legs up a bit?” Blake asked. Avon did so, and Blake sat down in the space Avon had made. Blake brushed a thumb across the arch of Avon’s foot, letting the nail scrape slightly, and Avon gasped, feeling a series of minute twitches creep along his skin. He became abruptly aware of how tender the soles of his feet were, still soft from the shower.

“That isn’t entirely pleasant,” he told Blake, “assuming you care.”

“Are you ticklish?” Blake asked, running two fingers lightly back over the path he’d suggested before with his thumb, still letting Avon feel his nails. 

“No,” Avon lied tersely. “But perhaps not so lightly.”

Blake dragged a knuckle hard down the middle of Avon’s foot, and Avon’s leg came up towards his chest involuntarily. Blake laughed, and Avon fixed him with a glare. Blake had set him up for that. He clearly knew just what he was doing. Avon had had no idea that a hard touch to the foot could still tickle, but Blake certainly did.

“Blake.” He snapped. “Take this seriously, or you can get off—“

Blake fixed Avon with an intent look. “I’ve got off,” he said to him, “more times than I can count to either the thought or the reality of sucking on a handsome man’s toes. That sort of sex often has an element of play to it, and frankly, I enjoy that. I’d like to think neither of us is so beaten down we can’t even—“ Blake broke off. “You used to be able to laugh. And if you can’t now…if you can’t now, then you’ve let them win.” Blake’s voice was raised by the time he’d finished, his face fixed in a scowl. 

Avon gave him a hard grin. “And you say I’ve lost my sense of humor,” he said. “Surely you see the irony.”

Blake flashed him a wry smile.

“My feet are yours,” Avon said, more quietly. _Like the rest of me,_ he thought.

Blake slid off the bed and, his hands cupping Avon’s left foot, drew his tongue along the arch.

It was shockingly intimate. He’d been confused, intrigued, surprised and a bit ticklish since returning from the shower. All of that had been trying, but tolerable. This was...it should have been terrible. It was perfectly obvious he didn’t like being intimate. But it was better than anything else Blake had done to him so far. Perhaps because he knew _Blake_ wanted to do it. Was that it? He was thinking too much, and it was starting to get frustrating again. He should, he thought, stick to talk. That was what he was good at.

“I suppose it is simple vanity that protests that my most attractive features should be at the center of your attentions, rather than my feet,” he said. “I don’t make a habit of observing my feet, but I am aware that my arches are not particularly well formed.”

Blake let out something between a laugh and a groan. “You have no idea what it does to me to hear you talk like that. Go on, tell me more about your feet.”

Well, that was really very charming. “The toes are square and the balls and heels of my feet are calloused.” Avon could hear his smile lightening his voice as he spoke. “They are average size, perhaps a bit large for my height. Blake, you really are perverse.” Blake ran a finger over the place where he’d just licked, and Avon bit his lip. “What could this possibly be doing for you? I should have known you would be as difficult to make sense of in bed as out of it.” That wasn’t fair of him, really. It was a reasonable enough fetish, and he was beginning to think he wouldn’t mind indulging it--often. He relaxed back slightly into the pillow.

“It’s always seemed to me you understood me very well,” Blake murmured, biting gently at Avon’s big toe. Avon drew in a long, ragged breath. A breath out, then in again.

After a minute, the way Blake’s mouth was moving against his skin, the rhythmic pattern to his kissing--just slightly too deliberate, as though he was distracted--made him realize that Blake had started touching himself. Oh, _damn_ , he thought. Oh, _son of a ten credit touch._  

Avon wet his palm with spit, then began to move his hand up and down his cock—slowly, so as not to disrupt Blake. Not to disrupt the loosening he felt in his own limbs, his own chest, that made this all seem possible.

The careful, damp drag shouldn’t have been enough, but with Blake at work on his feet, sucking at his toes, pressing open-mouthed kisses against the sensitive soles, it was perilously close to being too much. He cried out helplessly. Yes, it was—it was so good. He was unraveling into an orgasm, slipping away, falling into pleasure instead of working himself towards it. Blake’s name on his lips felt like an extra caress to his own body, like kissing and fucking at the same time, and he indulged himself again and again. No chance of keeping himself balanced on the edge of orgasm as he usually liked to. He came hard, gripping the side of the bed to keep still, so that Blake wouldn’t have to stop, so that he wouldn’t ever stop… 

**

Avon sat on the edge of Blake’s bed, taking stock of his state of mind. The process reminded him of trying to discover the extent of an injury—a procedure he was more familiar with. He recalled Blake once asking him how badly he’d been hurt, immediately after he’d been shot in the arm. Didn’t the idiot know that you never knew? Well, it seemed he was feeling fine now. Surprisingly peaceful. He looked down at Blake, who was still on the floor.

Blake eyes were closed. He was grinning, his curls were damp with sweat, the jagged line of the scar white against a flush.

Well. All right.

Avon drew in a steadying breath and let his gaze slide away, to land on an open box of protein-concentrate loaves, just a few feet away. Good. They’d missed their hot meal, and he was hungry. A pity the taste was so vile. He got up, stooped to retrieve one, then looked back over to see that Blake’s eyes were now open.

“Well now, Blake, if you’re still feeling decadent, perhaps I could feed you this protein loaf,” he said dryly. “Vila tells me they taste like feet,” he added, grinning wickedly. “Tell me, does the expert agree?”

“You wouldn’t take my word for it, would you?” Blake raised his eyebrows. “You’ll have to find out for yourself.”


End file.
